


Burned

by madaminferno



Series: Seeing Eye to Eye [4]
Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Blood, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, I Love You, I'm Bad At Tagging, Injury, Major Original Character(s), Mental Health Issues, Mild Gore, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PSTD, Panic Attacks, Slow Build, Trauma, megara shepard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 22:41:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13691337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madaminferno/pseuds/madaminferno
Summary: Shepard takes a mech to the chest and Garrus walks her through the panic;  Sidonis gets lucky.





	Burned

**Author's Note:**

> Best if read directly after "Worst-Kept Secrets," for the time being. I'm having issues deciding whether to keep all pieces in the series individual or just cave and add chapters to some; opinions welcome.

“So I see the Commander’s a little happier these days.”  Joker pinned him with an expectant squint as he spun his chair to face Garrus.  

 

“Oh?”  Vakarian was the first back from a quick shore leave on the Citadel -- just a day, just a breather, at Shepard's insistence -- and the entire command deck was empty of crew.  He'd only really wanted some very specific takeout, some neat little Asian-Asari fusion place down in the wards (their dextro menu was actually pretty flexible), or else he wouldn't have even left the Normandy, especially not if he'd realized Joker was waiting to pounce.

 

“Uh-huh.  See, apparently, she had a mysterious, late-night visitor, and after that she started perking up.  She _laughed at one of my jokes,_ man.  You wouldn't _know_ anything about that, though, right? I mean, you're _Garrus_.  Do you ever smile?”

 

Nothing if not accommodating, he obliged, and Joker shuddered.  

 

“See, that just makes me think you're gonna tear out my throat.  Forget I said anything.  Better yet, forget where I sleep.”  Garrus chuckled all the way back to the battery.

 

Although hesitant at first to rely on prescriptions to hold the nightmares at bay, Vakarian and Chakwas combined managed to convince the Commander that her liver would appreciate the switch, and she ceded without further fuss.  Within days, Shepard was brighter, more chipper, and as she warmed so did the Normandy SR2. The difference among the crew was tangible.  Everyone seemed less on edge -- still tense, of course, especially when news of colony attacks percolated through the CIC, but not as hushed, not as apprehensive.  

 

The next few weeks were a blur of scurry work, boring groundside missions -- 'fetch quests,’ Shepard called them with a smile, _a real smile_ \-- but he did take time to notice there were fewer bottles in the sink each evening, and the dark circles beneath her eyes were clearing up, and she sought his company more.  

 

With that issue on the mend, the only things he had left to busy himself with were the never-ending calibrations and _When the hell did I fall in love with her?_  Chellick might have given him a nudge, sure, but that didn’t feel ‘right,’ to him, didn’t feel like that was ‘the moment.’  She hadn’t brought up, yet, the conversation they’d slotted for their visit to Ruth’s before Shepard … before Alchera, and he wasn’t going to broach the subject until he was sure she was in the right headspace;  the interim left him with plenty of time to mull and remember.

 

Jacob snagged him as he made his way through the armory one morning, and Garrus was glad for the diversion.   _Better late to debrief than make small-talk with Mordin._  “What can I do for you?”  

 

“Just wanted to see if you had a minute, is all.”  He reclined against the weapons bench, his arms folded, but Garrus read him as hesitant, not necessarily closed.  They'd talked here and there, just a little, just enough for Vakarian to feel he had a good grasp on where his priorities lay, and he'd liked what he'd seen so far.  Of the two survivors of the Lazarus Project team, Garrus just plain _liked_ Jacob more.  “You know her pretty well, right?”

 

 _Ah._ “I suppose.”  He mirrored the posture, leaning casually against the window and considering the man in front of him.   _Cerberus, but still military under it all.  Wants to do good,_ be _good, make a difference.  Damned if I'm not looking into a mirror._ “How can I help?”  

 

The kid hid it well -- they were probably about the same age, honestly, but it was hard not feeling old after the last two years --  but Garrus caught the uneasy shoulder roll, the shift of his weight.   _Unsure.  Recalculating._ “The Commander is… not like any officer I've served under.”  

 

“You'll probably never find another like her.  She's firm, but forgiving and supportive.  Relatable.  Loyal to her team, listens to anyone with a good idea.  She'll never ask you to do anything she wouldn't.”  He canted his head with a flared plate and Jacob dropped his hands to the bench;   _He's letting his guard down.  Rare, probably._  “She’s got you questioning a few things, I take it.”

 

“You could say that.”  He stared at the door as if he could see her in the debriefing room on the other side.  “It's… a lot, y’know?  This is what I signed on for, this is what I'm _here_ for, but actually _being_ there, seeing --”  Everyone had their ways of coping with the reality of the Collectors, the Reapers;  it was simply refreshing to talk to someone who _understood_.

 

“Been there.”   _Spirits, he seems so young.  Not by much -- a tried soldier, jaded vet… young._ “But it's worth it.  Serving on the Normandy under Commander Shepard is an _invaluable_ experience.  The places she goes, the things she can accomplish -- it changes you.”  His subvocals hummed in reflection.  “Usually for the better.”  

 

Jacob tilted back, looked Vakarian over, and the turian waited, let him say his piece.  “I'm glad we made it to you in time.  On Omega.  There, uh…”  He shifted again, gave a little cough.  “It didn't seem like you had much time left.”  A muscled shoulder raised and fell in an _it-is-what-it-is_ apology.  “Sir.”

 

“Me too, because I _didn't._ ”  

 

Garrus was soon happy to have another dextro on the crew again -- not that the mess sergeant likely had many recipes for them, he was sure -- and more than pleased for that person to be Tali’Zorah vas Neema, as the pair of them had become Shepard’s go-to backup.  At first, way back in the beginning of their service together, it simply felt like the best tactical choice;  the trio worked smoothly, _seamlessly_ , plans fell into place with silent cohesion, and everyone just _knew_ where they needed to be to protect the others best, when to push, when to tactically retreat without needing a verbal command.  As a unit they had never been successfully flanked, nor taken a serious injury, barring Shepard’s broken arm after Sovereign nearly took the tower down in its defeat.  Every member of the team logged missions with the Commander, of course, but the important ones?  The heaviest artillery, deadliest of foes, greatest of stakes?  Shepard.  Tali.  Garrus.  All the way through the end.   

 

It was only right she came _home_ \-- albeit with a bit of good-natured teasing for the Vas Normandy moniker, mindful that it was changed without her consent -- and the unit was back together to save the galaxy yet again.  And lucky for him, as a bonus, he got to see Shepard yell at people until Tali’s treason charge just disappeared. _That's definitely her._

 

The three of them celebrated in Shepard’s quarters with music and liquor and genuine joy at reuniting, an after-mission tradition since long before Alchera;  they exchanged playlists, finally told the jokes that had been too light for serious combat, reminisced over photos taken in the heat of battle -- “Garrus, did you _know_ you kick up a heel before your trickiest shots?  I couldn't see _you_ from below the perch, but I could see your _foot!_  Oh!  Do you have any pictures of that weird thing she does with her tongue when she's lining up a headshot?  Classic _,_ send it to me.  I need it.  For _reasons._ ” 

 

Tali’s excitement bubbled almost as much as her drink.  “And then --   _then_!  You told Koris to mind his own _business_!  Might as well have kicked him in the -- what _is_ it Donnelly’s always -- _how_ does he -- _daddy bags_!”  Tali rocked on the couch, giddy.  “I am _so_ glad you're back, Shepard.  You make things so much more _interesting_.”  She shook her head, dipped it to make use of her 'induction port,’ but she missed the look shared between her friends, both remembering Horizon and _Kaidan_ and momentarily somber.  

 

“I'm just glad _you're_ back, Tali,” Shepard sighed, elbows on her knees as she sat on the armrest.  “Missed ya.  Don't tell Joker, he'll get jealous.”  

 

“That silly man, I even missed _him_ .  I could do without the Cerberus, though.  And an AI, Shepard, really? ” 

 

“Tell me about it.”  

 

The ride down the elevator with Tali was full of jokes and memories, but after a lull she asked what he knew was coming, what couldn't be put off any longer:  “How is she, Garrus?”  

 

“At first?  Bad.”  He leaned against the back panel, eyes closed.  The metal hummed against his plates, the familiar mechanics reverberating deep in his chest, comforting.  His subharmonics sighed. 

 

“How bad?”

 

Mandibles clicked as he considered how much to share.   _But this is Tali_.  “Bad.  She remembers burning.”

 

“Oh, keelah _._ ”  

 

“She hid it well, but it was there.  Still is, when she's quiet.”  He shook his head, almost regretfully.  “But she's drinking less and sleeping better, now.  She's laughing again.  Warmer.  She's smiling with the crew, making the rounds and enjoying it.  She'll never be exactly how she was, but Shepard's going to come out of this stronger.”  

 

Tali took a moment to absorb, tease apart the details he would only hint at.  “Thanks.  For being here for her when I couldn't, I mean.  And for telling me.”  

 

The doors hissed open to engineering first, and Garrus silently blessed EDI for small mercies.  “Tali, you don't have to--”

 

“I know.” She paused before she could turn the corner, the glow of her eyes narrowed and voice lilting in humor.  “How long have you loved her, Garrus?”  

 

The elevator doors closed on her chiming laughter before he could tell her: _I'm still trying to figure it out_.

 

Shepard visited him less often in the battery, now, but he was glad;  despite missing her company, it meant she was spending more time with her crew, getting to know them, and that was a huge improvement.  She spent almost as much time with Tali as she did with him, and soon it was just like the old days with the three of them groundside more often than not.  

 

It was when they _weren't_ together that things went bad.  

 

Tali met him at the shuttle, not needing to be called but already ahead of the rush, already _knowing_ something happened.  She pushed through the small crowd and stumbled back at the sight of him.  Mordin and Chakwas hunched over the Commander, arranging her on a stretcher, working in professional symmetry as they attached her to machines and accepted supplies from the pair of frantic nurses hovering close behind.  Miranda stood -- “Keelah, is that…?”  -- her suit rusted gore where it had once been stark white.  

 

Tali she ignored, but the Quarian didn't miss the look Garrus gave her, nor how quickly Miranda adjusted her posture in quiet, defiant response.  

 

 _Staring contest it is, then._   He stood watching the emotions pass over her face, watching the pieces click into place all at once:  a request for memory editing, the uncharacteristic distance,  drinking, reclusivity, exhaustion -- terror in the face of fire, outright panic.   _Damn, she's intelligent, I'll give her that._ “She remembers, doesn't she?”  

 

He didn't respond.  She didn't need him to.  

 

“Garrus,” Tali placed a pleading hand on his arm as Miranda walked away, “what _happened?_ ”

 

A simple raid, some indoctrinated scientists, a run of the mill _fetch quest_ , and Tali had a mild fever -- completely negligible to hear her tell it, debilitating to hear it from Shepard -- so Miranda joined him behind the Commander.  No one counted on survivors.  No one counted on biotic mercenaries, nor a hidden storeroom full of ATLAS mechs.  Shepard rolled with it, as she always did, right up until it rolled with her.  

 

Miranda had gone down before he could crack the cockpit on the ATLAS pummeling her barrier to shreds, and he reloaded with a curse.  A laserpoint soared to his perch across the wall beside him and he rolled away behind a crate;  a grenade launcher puffed, a small explosion, and the laser wiggled and flew off -- “Thanks, Shepard,” over the comm -- but when he rolled back into position and sighted down his scope, “Shepard, on your left!”  

 

And he had to watch her go down, too, before _finally_ nailing the pilot.  Half a dozen LOKIs were strafing around towers of cargo, but he had time and spent it hauling hide to her position.   _She's alive, has to be._ She was, she always was, and she crawled out from under the wreck more pissed than she'd gone under.  Shepard revived Miranda with a tap on her omnitool and casually downed two mechs rounding the corner with three shots from her pistol.  

 

Miranda took care of the rest as she darted over, weaving between cover.  “Commander, I'm sorry.  I miscalculated.  Are you alright?”  

 

“I'm fine, Lawson.”  

 

Garrus slung his rifle over his shoulder as the Commander walked off to summon a shuttle and assess the landing zone.  They both watched her as she went, and they both saw the nearly-hidden limp.  

 

“You could have helped me out, y’know.”  Miranda spoke under her breath, tossed her hair with an irritated flourish.  “If you weren't so busy admiring her _six_.”

 

“Mm, but it’s such a _nice_ six,” he drawled rather than reply in kind.  His fringe tensed and his mandibles flared, but he refused to act on instinct, to aim for a soft spot.   _I tried, but if you hadn't been so busy trying to flaunt yours you'd never have been flanked._ It still felt satisfying when she stomped away, at least.  

 

The survivors made it to the shuttle with no casualties, but there were enough people crammed in its meager team bay that the squad couldn't fit if they'd even wanted to try, so Shepard sent it on up without them.  They took their positions as directed and braced against wave after wave of mercs and mechs, and Garrus was glad to see Miranda pulling her weight on the other side of the field.   _She doesn't seem the type to make a mistake twice._ Impressed, he quickly brought down the two LOKIs edging around her peripheral and she shot him a sour look through the scope;  Garrus made sure to laugh loud enough for the comm to catch it.   _We'll make a team player out of her yet._

 

Together they raced to the shuttle on its return, LZ still hot and covering each other as they tried to 'leapfrog’ home, but Shepard remained on point at her insistence -- _No one gets left behind_ , and all that.  She was inching backwards, spraying shots against a wall of mechs, barriers failing fast and making little ground.  “Just _run_ for it, Shepard!”  Lawson screamed in frustration, throwing a shockwave over her shoulder and diving through the shuttle door.  Garrus strafed, down to only his sniper rifle and a single thermal clip, and he swung himself into the shuttle, perched on the ledge before spinning right back around to cover the Commander.  Miranda kicked at a turret as it refused to lock into place, cursing through her teeth and throwing her weight against the machine.  “ _Move,_ you piece of _shit!”_  

 

He glanced up.  Most of the mechs were reloading and she had only a flickering, faltering barrier; Shepard made a break for it.   _Damn it!_  He threw his rifle down, reached up and _jerked_ the turret into its lock, and Miranda hopped on.  The Commander was nearly -- a YMIR rounded the corner, took aim.  “ _Miranda!”_

 

“I _see_ it!”  The turret flashed to life and she leaned, swerving the barrel, aimed for the giant mech and emptied an entire clip.  It stumbled, armor badly damaged, sparkling, _crackling_ but still functional, regained its balance in moments.  Shepard ducked to reassess.  One heartbeat, two, then she bolted from behind another crate, mere steps away and Garrus reached for her, stretched, and she jumped --  

 

The entire shuttle rocked violently as a missile struck the side and everyone was thrown.  Miranda took down a cabinet as she fell, Garrus’ armor cracked the bench, and the turret swung limply, showering sparks and down for the count.  All they could see through the open bay was char and a wall of smoke until the Commander threw herself in, clinging to the grated floor with one hand and her other scrabbling at her helmet.  They were leaving before the door had even shut, but something was wrong, there was so much red _,_ she was _smoldering_ \--  

 

Lawson yanked his shoulder until he spun to face her.  Yelled things he couldn't hear.  She was right in front of him and he couldn't _hear_ her, could only hear a loud ringing noise. _Shepard_.  He crawled to her then, pulled himself to her, and he stared, talons frantically searching for something to do, somewhere to start.  Miranda gave up on him and dropped to her knees, desperately trying to help Shepard remove the bloodslick helmet, to smother her smoking armor.  

 

His hearing came back gradually, and he wished it hadn't.  Shepard's wheezing, gasping terror, muffled screams;  Miranda's frantic reassurances -- “Megara, _listen to me_ , let me _help_ \--” Both flailed behind a filter of blue stats as his visor ran a list of her vitals and the pilot’s erratic evasion maneuvers swayed the floor beneath them even through the dampeners.   _Breathing elevated, 02 plummeting?  Low blood pressure, high heart rate --  I don't --_ the three of them were covered in her blood.  He applied pressure where Miranda directed him, held gauze where she needed him, her wordlessly pointing and him complying, but he could hear her muttering under the din of group panic, “Don't _do_ this, not now--”

 

The right side of her armor was broken, large chunks of plate at odd angles, exposing the flimsy fabric below.  The undersuit was melted away in places but the wide strip of skin underneath down the side of her torso was bloody and raw even after several applications of medigel.  

 

“EDI.”  Garrus was surprised how calm he could sound and vaguely chalked it off as some fairly severe dissociation.  

 

“A medical team is already waiting in the shuttle bay.”   _Bless you, EDI._  Her monotonous voice was somehow comforting, and the reality of their situation came rushing back.   _She'll make it.  She has to.  She will._  

 

“Shepard, can you hear me?”  Garrus took one of her hands in both of his and leaned into her field of vision through the visor.  The Commander visibly struggled against herself, her  _fear_ , but she finally stilled enough for Miranda to remove her helmet.  Garrus refused to break her gaze despite the blood covering her face -- almost easy to ignore, he was used to blue, but there was just so _much_ and he felt a slight tinge of real fear creep up the back of his carapace.  As Miranda worked first aid he worked with Shepard through her terror, talked her down, reminded her she wasn't alone and yes, she's burned, though not burning, _not on fire --_ that one took convincing -- but eventually, _slowly_ , she relaxed, and she listened.  She hyperventilated, shivered, but she held his gaze and listened to his soothing, dual tones.  “Karin’s waiting for you on the Normandy, and Miranda's patching up the worst of it until we can get you there.  It's going to be fine -- _you're_ going to be fine.”  

 

Her lips pressed together in worry, and his thumb stroked the back of her hand in slow circles.  “You just wanted to eat a rocket, don't lie.  All the cool kids are doing it.”  

 

Her smile was shaky, but it was there.   _There we go.  That's my girl._

 

Miranda was messing with her leg when Shepard started feeling well enough to argue, though ashen from blood loss.  

 

“I _need_ to set it;  your implants are rushing to heal you but it can't _heal_ like this --”

 

Green eyes flashing in irritation, her teeth gritted into the pain and cheeks splattered in blood and tears and matted curls.  “It can _wait_ \--”

 

“It can't, _actually_ , because your hip is dislocated and I can't do one without the other --”

 

The shuttle door opened and cut short the debate;  Dr. Chakwas was already there with a tranq prepped and waiting.  Garrus nearly hugged the woman.

 

 _Wish you'd been there, Tali.  This kinda thing never happens when you are_.  “We were overwhelmed by mechs.  A merc cracked her armor, and she took a YMIR to the chest.”  The crowd was dissipating, leaving the pair standing by the rapidly-cooling shuttle.  He gazed down at his gauntlets.  The blue and black he was so used to was washed away in smears of red, alien blood, _Shepard’s_ blood.  

 

Tali hesitated before laying a gentle hand on his wrist.  “Are you alright?”

 

“Virmire,” he whispered into the silence of the shuttle bay, when he was sure they were alone.   “I realized on Virmire.”

 

It took four hours of surgery to remove shards of rib from a collapsed lung, three more to reconstruct and stabilize it all, and even longer for bone weaves, deep-tissue stitching and skin grafts;   _Damn, humans are sturdy_ .  Garrus went in search of the doc as soon as EDI let him know med-bay was open to visitors -- he hadn't even set an alert, the AI caught on fast -- but Chakwas would have none of it, thank you very much.  “She's _fine_ , Garrus.  Let her sleep;  Lord knows she needs it.”    

 

The door to the main battery hissed open hours later, and he didn't even need to guess.  “Should you really be up so soon?”  

 

“Pot, meet kettle.”   _Do_ _what_ , _now?_  He'd need to remember to ask about that one.  

 

Shepard smirked as she came into his line of sight, leaned right up on the _console he was working on_ \-- his subvocals thrummed in fleeting irritation -- and … put a hand on his arm?  

 

Curious, Garrus paused to gave her his full attention.  “Ah… Shepard?”

 

“I just wanted to say thanks.”  The Commander patted his shoulder a little before she moved away, leaning on the rail a less-personal distance away.  “I lost my head for a minute there.  I appreciate what you did.”  She stretched her neck nervously, stretched those ten, _weird_ little fingers together -- _backwards_ , even, pushing away from her with palms toward him -- and he saved his work with a few taps, set the door to permission mode with another.  

 

“...Megara.”  Garrus turned to face her, hip reclined against the now-dormant console.  “I understand.  What happened, I mean.  I've seen it before.”   _She_ has _to know this.  Don't humans know this?  They've had soldiers and tyrants throughout their civilized history like the rest of us, right?  Wars?  Oppression?  Crime?_ “It can happen with any trauma.  Yours happened to be very… intense.”

 

“It's still new to me.  I hadn't expected to encounter it in the field.  Should have, I think.  God _knows_ we see enough explosions.”  A quick, wry smile, and she was immediately back to business.  “Any leads on Sidonis?”  

 

“Funny you should ask.”  

 

But then she stopped him from shooting Harkin -- _A shame, really;  he doesn't_ need _that leg_ \-- and he wondered.  The whole ride to the meetup, just the two of them, she _actually_ tried to talk him out of it.  “This isn't you, Garrus,” she insisted.  He couldn't look at her, wouldn't.  Whatever his feelings about her, this _needed_ to happen.

 

When the time came she stepped aside, turned to look at him through the scope, and waited.  Sidonis was slow to react, didn't catch on right away, began to turn but all he could see was Shepard -- sad, but understanding;  not judging, not stopping him, just trusting him at his word that this was what he needed.   

 

Sidonis was as haunted by the deaths of his men as he was, and he'd certainly wallowed alone in that particular hell for long enough.  He rationalized the other turian would suffer _more_ if he let him live.  

 

Garrus lowered the rifle.  

 

They were silent on the ride back to the docks.  She gazed up at him with those _ridiculous_ eyes and his talons nearly snapped the manual steering, but he waited, he always _waited_.

 

“Look, I -- That can't have been easy.  It's okay if you want to blame me.  Just … let me know when you're ready to talk, okay?”

 

She didn't come by the battery that night, nor the two nights after.  It was a good thing she hadn't;  he spent half the time drunk and shut in the main battery, half the rest asleep, and when he was awake he was _angry_.  Tali had tried twice to gain access to his self-imposed lockdown, and it had been entertaining to actively prevent her dodging his protocols for a little while, but he eventually got his point across;  Jack yelled through his door one night, "Ey!  Get yer ass out here and shoot something, you'll feel better!"  But the point was more that he  _hadn't_ gotten to take his shot, and he continued his rut. The fourth evening he found himself at her cabin again, tugging nervously on his cowl and a six-pack under one arm;  he didn't need to bolster himself before he entered.  

 

Shepard was finishing up some reports at her desk -- empty of personalizations, not a single photo of family or anyone at all, he noted -- but she gave him the warmest smile when he walked in and his pulse fluttered.  “Hey, big guy.  Make yourself comfortable, I'm almost done.”  

 

His talons easily opened both bottle caps as he reclined on the couch in what was fast becoming his normal spot, and he took the opportunity to nose about his omnitool in her music library.   _Instrumental today.  Old Earth, sounds like.  Unobtrusive, hidden, but comforting_.   _Only there when you're looking for it._  It fit her, oddly enough.  

 

“You like?”  She leaned over him to pluck her beer from his grasp and he found himself fumbling, plates fidgeting as he tried to glean context and failed under the fresh scent of her shampoo -- _something sweet, clean.  Citrus?  --_ the brush of her curls against his rough hide -- _spirits, how are humans so_ soft _? --_ the warmth of her fingers against his as she took the bottle from him, and his breath was stuck in his chest, neck flushed.  _What_ \-- _She can't mean --_

 

“Ah, I -- sorry?”  

 

“The music.  You're messing around in my library again.”  Shepard shot him a reassuring grin as she stepped over the couch cushions and dropped neatly into a little pile at the opposite end.   _Huh.  Human legs are… very bendy._ “It's a recent find.  You like?”

 

“I like the melody.  Calming.  I… Honestly, I had no idea your preferences ranged so far beyond _Expel 10_.”  Her eyes rolled and she scoffed in good humor.  

 

“It depends on my mood.  When I'm doing simple things -- cleaning out my inbox, for example,” she gestured vaguely in the direction of her desk and paused for a swig, “instrumental music helps me focus.  More than full-on silence, anyways.  Or anything with lyrics.”  Shepard tapped through a few menus on her omnitool, drink in hand.  “This is a band called 'Isis,’ song is 'In Fiction.’  Old.  Early 2000s, I think?  Great for stretching, solo drinking, and serious wind-downs.  Multipurpose.”  The music stopped, the screen blinked as it loaded her selection.  “Psychologically, music can be a wonderful tool.  How _else_ do you think I get so pumped for the ridiculous missions we get sent on?”  A new song filtered through hidden speakers, something old and sad and crooning, raspy in all the right places.  

 

“So what's _this_ one for, then?”  

 

Shepard curled back on the couch, closer to him this time, legs tucked under her as always -- _How is that even comfortable? --_ but her whole body turned to him, focused and attentive.  “Generally?  Nostalgia.”  

 

He considered the melody, the harmony, the instruments -- _strings_ it sounds like, and deep, reverberating horns, soft percussion.  “Not _all_ sad, though, I hope?”

 

“Not always.”  The Commander smiled into her beer, absently tapped through her library, and the music switched over to heavy bass, bouncing chords, and percussive, rhythmic rhymes.   _"First things first, I'll eat ya brains!"_   Garrus tilted his head, laughing.  

 

“ _Really,_ Shepard?  I didn't quite have you pegged as the 'to hell with everything' type.”  

 

“No?  It was stuck in my head the entire time we were racing Saren to the Council chamber.  This is ass-kicking music.”   _Tap-tap, tap._ The next tune was aggressive, but the lyrics screamed grief and loss and the supporting instruments clashed, crescendoed, all over a rapid drumline.  “This one when Ash … didn't come home.”  

 

 _Virmire._  

 

He absorbed this information, every drop, filing it all away in a precious corner of his mind, neat and tidy for easy perusal later.  “Does your mood lead the music, or does your music lead the mood?”  

 

“Depends on the objective.  I remember you liked this one, though.”  She finally took mercy on him and settled for a more recent muzak mix, unobtrusive but familiar, something they'd heard running errands before the Citadel was torn all to hell;  this was one of the more pleasant earworms from the Presidium.  “Tali gave you crap for it, if memory serves.”  Eyebrow raised, she pinned him with a no-nonsense glare and switched tracks without warning.  “How are _you_ , Garrus?  No bullshit, either.”  

 

“I'm…”  His talons tapped a rhythm on the glass, matching the music, but his ears were full of white noise.   _This is_ Shepard _, if I can talk to anyone, it's her._  But the words wouldn't come and he leaned back, let his head hang, sighed.  “I'm sleeping better, but I'm still struggling with my decision.”  He held up a talon to stave off what he just _knew_ was an attempt to shoulder the blame.  “I appreciate it, Meg, but it _was_ my decision.  You…  despite the things you said, how you didn't agree with -- you still gave me the shot.  But I didn't take it, because you were _right_ .  At first…”  He finished his beer desperately, trying to find the words and unable to do more than ramble.  “I hated myself.   Over a _year_ and he just --  I owed it to my squad.  And …  I let it go.”  

 

The silence stretched, but she didn't move or attempt to fill it.  It was _his_ turn to unwind, apparently.  “It was maybe the … _hardest_ thing I've ever done, letting him walk away, letting him _live_ , but then I remembered the refinery, and how Zaeed nearly let all those people -- How _far_ he was willing --”  His throat closed around the sentence.   _You put a stop to that, too.  You always would have, even before._  “Is that why you took me with you, on his mission?”  

 

On his peripheral, he caught her fidgeting, picking at the label on her bottle.  “Partially.”  

  
Garrus chuckled and retrieved another beer for each of them.  “Megara.   _Thank_ _you_.”  

**Author's Note:**

> Come back in three days, it'll be better (am I the only one who obsessively rereads after posting to comb for redundancies? Anyone? No?).
> 
> If you're into that kinda thing, I made a playlist for Meg; link is in the series description.


End file.
